Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
He’s trembling, I note, shaking like a volcano about to explode.
“Are you okay?” I murmur, sitting up.
“No,” he snarls. “Not one fucking bit.”
I stand up and walk to him, close enough I can smell the musky manly scent of him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I think you know,” he snarls, walking even closer to me. He stops, staring down at me, raising his hands as though to touch my face. My heart pauses. My skin riots with a thousand sensations. “It has something to do with those goddamn noises you were just making.”
He leans down, bringing his face closer and closer to mine.
Chapter Nine
Damian
I’ve tried to fight this all damn night.
Sitting with my back to the wall and my gun resting on the floor between my feet, Sparky curled up in the bathroom on a bundle of towels, I tried to fight it.
I told myself that it’s not fair, I just saved her from a psycho criminal.
We’re moving too fast.
I’m putting unnecessary pressure on her.
Blah-blah-fucking-blah.
None of it rang true in my mind, not when I thought about those big milk-giving breasts and those hips made for squeezing and bearing children, not when I thought about how wide and spunky her eyes would get when I plunged into the sweet juiciness of her pussy.
Not when I closed my eyes and summoned her scent, the sweet tanginess of it.
Not when I thought about the sassiness, the character in her voice, her quick wit, her … her fucking everything.
And then I heard her moans rising into the air, her breath catching, and I knew I had to charge over here.
Maybe part of me was still trying to fight, though, when I made up that lame excuse about thinking she was having a nightmare.
But as she stands in front of me, her hair all messy, her cheeks flaming red, I can’t fight it anymore.
“Do you have any idea—”
I turn around whip-fast when somebody bangs on the door, three consecutive hammers that feel like they make the very room tremble.
Fuck.
I hold my hand up for Dakota to remain silent and then move toward the door, muttering a silent thanks that Sparky hasn’t decided to start barking. He’s usually good about noises and things like that, but with an excitable young dog, it’s always hard to be sure.
I stalk to the window and peel back the curtains, just about ready to do some serious damage to any bastard foolish enough to interrupt what I was about to do to Dakota, the way I was going to unleash myself on her like the wild beast I am.
Bang-bang-bang.
“Janine?” the man slurs, barely holding onto the neck of a whiskey bottle in one hand as he raises his fist to the door again. “Janine? Ya in there? I—” He pauses to burp, and then hammers the door again. “Janine?”
It’s hard to make out the man’s features in the dark, but I can tell that he’s tall and wiry, with a mop of dark-colored hair.
“It’s just some drunk guy,” Dakota murmurs, walking up beside me.
“Could be,” I agree, keeping my voice quiet. “Or could be a decoy to get us out there. Impossible to know.”
“What do we do?”
“We wait,” I tell her. “He’ll go away eventually.”
I watch the parking lot for any sign of the Bratva, a flicker of metal that might be a gun, a movement that might be men approaching, anything.
“Janine, if you’re in there … I love you, okay? I love you and I’m sorry.”
Suddenly, another door snaps open and a woman’s voice rises into the night. “Johnny? The fuck are you doing?”
“J-Janine?” the man moans.
“You got the wrong room, you asshole. Come on, get in here. Folks are trying to sleep.”
“Janine,” the man cries, walking away on shaky legs.
I shake my head, turning to find that Sparky has wandered into the room, looking up at me in that imploring way he has. He tilts his head and his eyes narrow as if to say, We both know what needs to happen here.
“He wants to go out,” I mutter.
“Is it safe?”
I turn to her, offering her a smirk.
A disjointed part of me is wondering if the interruption was a sign.
What would the message be, then?
Don’t kiss her. It isn’t right. She’s only just got out of captivity.
But I can’t bring myself to care about that as fiercely as maybe I should. Even now, I find myself fighting the urge to grab her and kiss her hard … but then I know that I’ll lose control, the feral part of me awakening, and I’ll have to claim every inch of her.
“Probably safer than trying to keep the gremlin in here when he needs to go,” I say. “Lock the doors and don’t answer them for anybody apart from me. We won’t be long.”
“Uh—okay.”
I note her hesitation, wondering if she’s wondering why I’m not grabbing her and kissing her hard.